Blue Eyes
by SnapdragonsYearRound
Summary: Thomas Raith, son of the late Margaret LeFay, lives with his half-brother, Harry, and stepfather, Malcolm. Thomas has always known that his life was stranger than most, and not just because his mother was a witch... An AU where both Margaret and Thomas managed to escape from the Raiths.
1. Nov 1st, Present Day

**Hello, and welcome to my story. This is an AU story about what Thomas's life might've been like if Margaret had been able to escape the Raiths with him, and it will be a multi chapter story. I hope you enjoy it!**  
 **I do not own The Dresden Files or any of its characters.**

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 **Chapter 1 - November 1st, Present Day**

I wake up to my little brother's squishy finger poking my cheek.

"Thoooooomas," he says as he wakes with no shame. "I can't find my Legos."

"Ask Malcolm," I tell him, batting his hand away and putting my pillow over my face.

Harry pulls it off and sticks his finger into my cheek again. "Dad's making breakfast. He told me to ask you."

Yeah, right. Malcolm knows better than to try to wake me up early.

"I'm asleep," I say.

"No you're not." Poke, poke, poke.

"Yes, I am."

"No." Poke. "You're." Poke. "Not." Poke.

Little brothers are annoying.

I grab his finger, which is surprisingly warm considering there's no heating. "Fine. I'll help you find your Legos, twerp."

Harry smiles triumphantly and hops off the bed, sitting down next to a suitcase that looks like it's been through a hurricane.

A hurricane named Harry.

Harry's one of those kids who always has messy hair and a smile that tells you he's trouble. He's tall, for a kid, but skinny as a noodle. Still, that doesn't stop him from telling the older kids at the park to back off when they push him off the swing. When he makes up his mind there's no stopping him, and even though it can get him into messes he can't pull himself out of, no one can say he does anything half-way.

I glance at the clock hanging from the wall. 7:13. Great.

I drag myself out of the squeaky bed, my body groaning as I do so. I'm still not recovered from last night, but I can't let Harry know that. I'm more than grateful that I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and not just because of the bruises that I'm sure are there. I rub my arms as painlessly as possible, trying to get some kind of warmth into them. The room felt like it was previously inhabited by a polar bear so stupid he forgot to take the cold back with him.

After Harry announces that his Legos are not in the first suitcase, he moves onto the next one. I barely stop him from making a mess out of this one as well before we finally find the Legos hidden inside of one of Harry's sweaters. For some reason I'm not shocked. Harry runs around so much I'm surprised he isn't sweating every moment of the day, so it kind of makes sense that he'd think of sweaters as Lego-bags instead of clothing.

"Yeah!" Harry's smile is almost infectious as he dumps the Legos out. "Now I remember. I put them there."

I yawn loudly and shiver. God, it's cold in here. "Why?"

Harry sees me yawn and laughs. "To get you to wake up."

I raise an eyebrow.

Harry already knows what's going to happen, but before he can run away I grab him with one arm and toss him onto the bed, ignoring the fiery pain that suddenly surrounds my right wrist. He giggles as he tries to crawl off.

"Oh, no you don't" I say with a grin. I tickle his sides and his giggles grow to full-blown uncontrollable laughter. "This is what you get for waking me up."

Because guess what. Big brothers can be annoying, too.

"No waaaaay-" he tries to say before I tickle him even harder. "Thomas! Stop!" he shouts between laughs.

I stop tickling. "Will you stop hiding your Legos?" I ask him.

He smiles instead of answering.

"So that's a no?" I start tickling him again.

His laughs are so loud I worry for a second if he'll wake up the people in the rooms next door. Then I remember that we're the only people in this cruddy motel and keep going.

"Why did you want to wake me up?" I ask him.

Harry points a finger at my face. "To see you look like that!"

"Like what?" My tangled hair creeps into my vision, I can feel the bruises under my long-sleeved shirt, and I bet I have bags under my eyes. "An Abercrombie model?"

What can I say. I'm just that good-looking.

Harry's arms are flying everywhere, then his face glows like I've never seen. He throws a balled-up hand towards my face and I have stop tickling him to catch it.

I stare at his tiny fist for a second and then turn to him. "Did you just try to throw a punch?"

Harry giggles as he sinks into the bed. "I watched you do it. Now I can beat you."

"Wait, wait, wait," I let go of his fist and sit him up on the bed. "You watched me practice?"

Harry nods. "Yeah. When the big guy came over last night."

I sigh and run a hand over my face. Of course Harry wasn't asleep last night when I snuck out, and of course he got nosy. Stupid birthday sugar rush.

Dammit. This isn't good.

"Don't you dare tell Malcolm," I warn him. He starts laughing and stops when he sees I'm not joking.

"Why not?" he asks. He crosses his arms and looks up at me with mischief in his eyes. "Is it a secret?"

Ok, time to play dirty.

I smile back at him. "As big a secret as you staying up for _three hours_ after your bedtime."

The mischief goes away in an instant. "You can't tell Dad," he says, standing up on the bed and looking down at me. "He'll take away my Legos!"

"Then you won't tell him about the big guy."

Harry pouts and pushes me, even though it really doesn't do much. "Meanie."

I grab one of his legs and pull it out from under him. Harry gives me a look before reaching over to try to tickle _me_. Trust me, there's nothing more hilarious than watching your much younger and smaller brother try to win a fight against you. Especially when he's six and trying to use _brute force_.

I let him crash against my arm, bounce against it, fall onto the bed, and repeat the process over and over again until my stomach wakes up with a loud groan. Harry doesn't seem to notice and charges at me once again.

I launch myself off of the bed before he can reach me. Harry can't stop himself in time, so he ends up flopping onto the spot where I was sitting. "I'm getting something to eat," I tell him. Fooling around with Harry warmed me up. Me and my stomach.

"Ok," he says. He tries to push me down one last time, fails, and then runs over to his Legos. I want to press him about what he saw last night, but I know that I'd be digging my own grave if I did that. Harry's just a little kid, and little kids suck at keeping secrets. Even though part of me wants to know exactly how much he saw, the other part of me knew that the less I bring up the subject the less likely it is that Harry will.

"Morning" says Malcolm as I walk into the motel's rusty kitchen/living room. It's warmer here than in the bedroom, probably because the stove's on. "Harry wake you up?"

" _No_ ," I roll my eyes at his question. "I just decided to wake up at seven in the morning because that's what my teenage hormones tell me is a good idea."

"Your teenage sarcasm is noted," he says while flipping pancakes. "Harry?"

"Building who-knows-what with his Legos."

"Hopefully he hasn't made a mess of things yet" he says, but his tone tells me he knows better.

Malcolm is Harry's dad. He's tall, stocky, and is almost always smiling. He's a travelling magician who mainly performs at birthday parties or retirement homes, but sometimes he'll perform in an actual theatre. We move around a lot because of his job, so we don't stay anywhere for longer than three months. He's better than what most people give him credit for, or more accurately, pay him for. Mom married him almost two years before Harry was born. I've lived with him ever since.

"Don't know if you remember, but you were just as bad as he was when you were his age."

I shake my head and grab a pancake from the stack Malcolm's put next to the stove. "Like hell."

"I should know." He reaches behind him and grabs a plate, pushing into my hand without even turning to look at me. "I first met you when you were his age."

I groan and grab the plate. "That doesn't make you an expert on six year-olds."

He flips another pancake. "Raising two six year-olds doesn't make me an expert?"

"One," I correct him. "Mom raised me when I was six."

Malcolm stops for a moment. His body tenses up and his eyes get unfocused, the way they always do when one of us brings Mom up. The moment passes, and he's back to pouring batter. "Right. Your mom and I didn't get married until you were seven."

I don't say anything back. Just roll my pancake and take a big bite.

"You are your brother are growing like weeds. Can't remember the last time I've had to make this much food."

"Do we have any cake left?" I drop the pancake and the plate onto the table and walk over to the fridge. As crappy as this motel room is, it does have two redeemable features. A separate bedroom with an actual door, and a working fridge.

"That's your brother's," Malcolm chides me.

I open the fridge and take a look. My ribs groan as I rummage around, but I shrug it off and force myself to play it cool. "His presents are his," I say, hoping that he can't tell I'm wincing a bit. "His cake is communal."

"Remind me of the time when you claimed your birthday cake all to yourself when you turned ten," Malcolm says with amusement. I look at him from the corner of my eye and he gives me a knowing smirk.

I pull out one of the four remaining slices and slop it on top of my half-eaten pancake. I roll my shoulders a little to get the tension out of my ribs. "That was different," I tell Malcolm.

"How?"

"I didn't have an older brother who gets older brother privileges." I grab the pancake with my fingers and turn the entire thing into one sugar-induced coma. It's pretty good, and I finish the entire thing in just three bites.

"I see you're enjoying your breakfast."

"I'm growing like a weed." Plus, I have work in a few hours. It's not much, just taking down orders at a nearby diner, but it helps with the bills and gives me some extra pocket money.

"That you are," he says, smiling.

"Since when are you overly sentimental?" I joke.

"Never. You know me, my words are nothing but the truth."

"Says the travelling magician."

"Watch your tongue, boy." I can still see his smile as he says that. "Your mother would've had your ear for that."

"Yeah. She would have. I'm suddenly conscious of the five point pentacle and its cool, metal surface underneath my shirt. When I was little I wore it because I thought it was cool, but now I wear it because it feels like I have a piece of her with me wherever I go.

"I think it's time we give Harry his necklace," says Malcolm.

I turn my head to him in surprise. "Why didn't we give it to him yesterday?"

"I didn't want him to be sad on his birthday," he explains.

"Why would he be sad?" I ask. "You'd be talking to him about Mom. What she was like, what she did." I look him directly in the eye. "What she knew."

"Malcolm sighs and rubs his neck. We've been fighting about this for years, so he knows exactly what I'm talking about. "Thomas, we've been over this."

"She promised she'd tell me when I turned 15."

"You still remember that." He says it as if I'd just remembered today. Yeah, it's not like I haven't been bringing it up every single year. Not like we haven't argued about this before.

"It's almost my birthday."

"It's still four months away," he says, calm as ever.

"What's the problem with just telling me now?"

"There's no need to rush."

I think about last night, about all of the questions that keep coming into my brain every time I sneak out. I try something new this time. "Harry asks me about my father sometimes."

That gets him to stand still. He sets down the batter he was about to put onto the pan and turns around fully to face me.

"I do my best to keep my face neutral, my voice calm and controlled. "He asks why you're not my dad, and I tell him that Mom knew someone before you."

"So what's the problem?"

"He's stubborn." Malcolm laughs at that. "Exactly. He keeps asking questions, and I can't answer all of them."

"Then just answer the ones you can," he says. As if it were that easy.

"I'm still left with all these questions. Mom said that I was different, different in a way like my father-"

"No you're not," Malcolm answers with conviction. It catches me off guard and swear that the room almost started spinning.

"What do you mean by that?" I can feel my heart thumping loudly against my chest.

"I'm only going to tell you that," he says. "You're not like your father, Thomas. You're better than him."

"How?" I ask him, my voice beginning to rise. "How am I better than him?"

"I'll tell you on your birthday." His voice is calm, but his eyes are sad. "Until then, just know that you're not like him."

"But I am. I know I am. "Do you know that not knowing is driving me crazy? Because I don't think you do."

"Thomas-"

"I just want to know what's going on with me." The words tumble out of my mouth. _Calm down_ , I tell myself. _Calm down_.

"Thomas, what's bringing this on?"

"It's-"

The sound of Legos crashing to the ground cuts me off mid sentence. Harry. I bite my tongue before I can let out anymore words, and force myself to take a deep breath. I don't want him to hear us fighting.

Malcolm glances over at the bedroom, but says nothing. When he speaks again his tone hasn't changed. "I'm respecting your mother's wishes. And that's the end of it."

I want to say that Mom's not here anymore, but something holds me back, and I bite my tongue. I can give anyone a hundred page list of the things that Malcolm's willing to bend the rules on, or at least ignore for a while, but this is one thing he hasn't budged on for years.

I get it's a promise he made to Mom, I swear I do.

Mom's been gone for six years now, and I still miss her every day. I should be saying 'Ok, this is what she wanted and I'm cool with it'. So why do I keep getting angry when I know I shouldn't?

My body thrums with pain, and I remember the reason why.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I say, leaving the empty plate on the counter. I rush into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

I lean against the door and take in a few deep breaths. I have to cool it. I stay there for a few moments until my mind's calmed down and I stop feeling frustrated.

Ferrin's words from last night come back to me. _Don't let your feelings block your mind. You need to stay calm and in the moment, and not just in a fight._

I focus on the here and now. I'm in the bathroom of a cruddy motel, I can hear Malcolm calling Harry to breakfast and Harry bursting into the kitchen with a story about how he made a Lego tower that got destroyed by sky demon.

I crack a smile. Harry's always been a whirlwind, but somehow he always manages to keep me grounded when I'm at war with myself.

The bathroom's just as cold as the bedroom. Still, I pull off my shirt and confirm what I've been suspecting since I got out of bed. Purple bruises run along my arms and chest, with a particularly large one on my right wrist. Last night Ferrin focused on throws and upper body strength, so my legs aren't as bad.

I think back to Harry and how he saw me and Ferrin. I don't think he listened in on any of our conversations, but I'm still nervous. I'm gonna have to be extra careful whenever I'm around Harry and Malcolm for the next few days. I should have enough long shirts, but I have to make sure that all of them cover my wrist.

No parties for a while, too. A few cute girls in school always invite me to the next random party that's coming, and as much as I'm tempted to go, they almost always end up with me with my shirt half-off. I don't need strangers at a party asking me how I got banged up. It might also be nice to get everyone off my back for a while. The guys don't appreciate me 'hogging all the girls', and as nice as it is having all the lovely girls' attention, it can get a bit overwhelming.

Mom said that this would happen. She said that it was something that ran in my family. The Raith part of it.

The part that she didn't get to explain to me and that Malcolm still refuses to talk about.

I wipe some of the grime off the mirror and stare at my reflection. Every time I go out with Harry and Malcolm people guess I'm some sort of nephew or cousin. I'm growing, but I'm not nearly as tall as Malcolm. Harry and I have similar jaws, but he's still too little for it to really show. Malcolm's sturdy. I'm more lean. Harry's short hair sticks out everywhere. Mine's shoulder-length and curly.

Harry and Malcolm both have brown eyes. I have blue.

I don't mind not looking like Malcolm since I'm not related to him, but it feels strange when people don't realise that Harry and I are brothers. Malcolm says I take after Mom. I guess I do, at least a little, but he doesn't know how much I take after my father. I feel a pit of dread and hate rise in my throat, one that I'm not quite able to suppress.

I turn on the shower and jump in, not caring that the hot water hasn't kicked in. I'm shivering and shaking as the freezing water hits me, but it takes the pain away from the bruises so I don't shy away from it.

I start thinking about my father. I don't remember much, most of the time he was away, and whenever I did see him he was always cold and distant. But I remember enough. I remember my father being the most handsome person I've ever seen in my life, and that everyone loved him for it. I remember that he and I share the same stony face, the same broad shoulders, and the same pale skin.

There is one thing I'm grateful I don't share with my father. His silver eyes.

I've always hated his silver eyes.


	2. Jan 12th, Seven and a Half Years Ago I

**Hello again! Thank you very much for the reviews/favorites. I can definitely say that they motivated me quite a bit while i was writing this next chapter.**  
 **I hope you enjoy the next chapter.**  
 **I do not own The Dresden Files or any of its characters.**

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 **Chapter 2 - January 12th, Seven and a Half Years Ago, Part 1**

"His magic sucks."

"His magic is nonexistent," Margaret clarified. "His mortal illusions are quite decent."

"Oh, yeah. They worked _really good_ on you," said Thomas.

"And your comments are an attempt to dissuade me from my date."

"I don't like his tricks."

"But I like him."

"Why?"

"He's a good man."

"You said my father's a good guy."

"Not true. I said he's interesting. He commands control, power. He has never been good, never kind."

"Then why were you with him?"

Margaret paused for a moment, then stowed away the earrings she was about to put on. "Thomas," she said softly "Do you remember what I showed you?"

There was a pause. "Like I'll ever forget it."

Margaret turned around to look at her son, who was lying face-up on the bed furthest from the door with his head hanging over the edge. "Good," she said primly. "Then you'll always remember what a dangerous man he is."

"And _he_ isn't?" Margaret could've sworn she heard a faint snarl in Thomas's voice.

"He isn't," she said as she knelt down in front of him. "He's a mortal man. One with a good heart. What's the biggest promise a wizard can make?"

Thomas scrunched his face in thought for a moment. "A promise… On their power?"

"Precisely." Margaret filtered her fingers through Thomas's long hair softly. "And I swear to you on my power that he is a good man."

"But how do you _know_?" Thomas suddenly sat upright on the bed. "You said that Dad hurt you."

Thomas had not taken the news that Margaret had gotten a boyfriend particularly well. Margaret knew that this was because of what she had shown Thomas at the Raith mansion right before they'd fled, but she did not regret her decision to show him that nor her decision to date again.

"I saw his soul," Margaret explained. "And he saw mine."

"Oh, so _he_ gets to see your soul."

"Yes." Margaret ignored Thomas's blue eyes. "And stop trying to sneak a soulgaze. You're too young for it."

"I'll be seven next month!" Thomas protested.

"Thomas," she said in a clipped voice. "That's enough. You don't know everything. You'll understand when you're old enough."

"So when I turn 100?"

"If that's the age you want," Margaret rose from her place on the floor, "Then so it shall be."

"What?" Thomas stood up on the bed and grabbed her arm. "Wait, I was kidding!"

Margaret rolled her eyes and smiled to herself. "Then next time think about who you're dealing with. With me, once I accept a deal, it's sealed. Malcolm on the other hand, is much more flexible."

Thomas's eyed her suspiciously. "What if I tell him to do something to change our deal?"

"You can try to convince him," Margaret smirked. "But you'll have to be very clever."

She let Thomas bounce on the hotel bed as she finished getting ready. Unless something urgent were to happen that night, like Raith's servants finding their hiding spot or the White Council finally getting wind of her escape, there was no way she was going to cancel her date. Finding a night when her boyfriend wasn't performing _and_ her meticulously chosen babysitter wasn't busy at some college party or whatnot was, to say the least, difficult for Margaret, even more so whenever she and Thomas moved to a new city or town. Then again, she should consider herself fortunate enough to have found a man so decent that he was willing to follow her across the continent.

She should consider herself fortunate that they haven't been attacked in three weeks.

It was a few minutes before 6 o'clock when four strong knocks came from the door.

Margaret quickly checked to make she that her long skirt was in order and that her hair was still in its loose braid. She walked over to the door and asked, "And who might be here at this hour?"

"The man you have a date with," was the reply.

"Funny, should I recall agreeing to a date?"

"I think so. And the date brought flowers."

Margaret lowered the wards and received her guest with a smile. "Early as always."

Malcolm Dresden stood at the door, his favourite hunting jacket as clean as his newly washed blue jeans. In his hands was a bouquet of tulip, their deep red almost as rich as the colour of Margaret's skirt.

"For you," said Malcolm, offering the flowers, "I always be."

Margaret accepted the flowers merrily and gestured for him to come inside. The chilly air from outside snuck its way into the room, and Margaret could feel goosebumps rising on her skin. Malcolm had to duck his head to avoid colliding with the doorway, and he smiled when he saw Thomas. "Hello, Thomas. Been up to much trouble since I last saw you?"

Thomas shrugged and jumped off of the bed. He went to the motel room's small kitchen and pulled out a box from one of the cabinets, showing two of its cookies into his mouth.

"That would be a yes," said Malcolm with a laugh, and Margaret nearly laughed as well before reminding herself that she had to be the strict parent.

After quickly reinstating the wards, she took the box and a third cookie from Thomas's hands and stored them in the kitchen's highest shelf. "Say hello to Malcolm, Thomas," she ordered.

Thomas huffed at Margaret, but said "Hello, Malcolm," nonetheless.

Margaret shut the cabinet with the cookies and sent a wave of amber magic over it, closing it with her magical version of a child lock.

"Mooooom," Thomas whined.

Margaret ignored him and made sure that the ingredients for the dinner the babysitter was going to cook were in order. Malcolm sat down at the small kitchen table with Thomas and started telling him a story about the time he once saw a mother yank a corn dog right out of her child's mouth because he was chewing so loudly.

"No way!" exclaimed Thomas. "You don't make noise with corn dogs."

"When was the last time you had a corn dog?" asked Malcolm.

"Two years ago," answered Margaret for her son with a sigh. She sat down in between the two of them and rested her elbows on the back of the chair. "Unfortunately for me, Thomas's has a very particular palette."

"I don't like corn dogs," said Thomas very pointedly.

"I'll make sure to never offer you one, then," laughed Malcolm. Margaret saw his eyes go downward and land on Thomas's chest. "What's that you have there?"

Margaret looked over and saw that Thomas had pulled out the pentacle necklace that she had given him, and it was now hanging proudly off of his neck. For some reason that Margaret didn't quite understand, Thomas had kept the necklace hidden under his shirt every time Malcolm had come over, but now it was as if he were showing it off.

"Did your mom give you that?" asked Malcolm with curiosity.

Thomas nodded "She said to always keep it on." He looked up with suspicious eyes, watching Malcolm's face intently. "You think it's stupid."

"I don't," said Malcolm with a shake of his head. "It looks good on you. I don't know why anyone would think it's stupid."

"My classmates say that only girls wear necklaces," continued Thomas, "that it's stupid for boys to wear it."

Thomas's tone was lighter than Margaret expected it to be. She knew that Thomas got far more compliments than taunts from the girls in his class. But Malcolm didn't know that. If anything, Thomas actually enjoyed wearing the necklace.

Oh.

He was waiting for Malcolm to react.

"I disagree with that," said Malcolm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long brown string and a small green stone. "I think that anyone can wear a necklace. If they want to."

Malcolm placed the string in one hand and the rock in the other, demonstrating that they were two completely separate objects. Thomas looked confused, but nevertheless interested. Malcolm cupped his hands together and placed both items inside.

Margaret craned her head to see what was happening, but Malcolm moved his hands away from her. "I'm afraid that this trick does not require your magic, my dear. In fact, it might actually ruin the trick."

Margaret raised an eyebrow. She glanced between Malcolm and the objects before noticing that Thomas had his eyes glued on Malcolm's hands. She kept her face as neutral as possible, stubbornly pushing down the smile that want to come out.

Malcolm blew on the objects twice then closed his hands. He shook the a little and then separated his fists. He held up one of them in the air, twisting it a little before opening it to show his empty palm. He closed the hand again and raised the other in the same fashion. He opened the other hand, and once again, there was nothing in it.

Thomas's eyes grew to the size of moons. "Where did they go?" he asked, his voice full of the surprise and wonder that only exist in children.

"Where did what go?" asked Malcolm innocently.

"The string! And the rock!" Margaret could tell that Thomas was resisting the urge to bounce in his seat.

"Oh," Malcolm closed both of his hands once more and pressed them together, "do you mean this?"

His hands broke apart with wan elegant flourish, and hanging from one of them was a necklace made out a long brown string and a small green stone. The string did not look as if it had been tied in any way, and the stone hung from it thanks to a small hole in the stone barely big enough for the string to squeeze through (a hole that Margaret was positive had not been there before). Malcolm passed the necklace to Thomas, who took it eagerly.

"How did you do that?" Thomas asked, his voice full of genuine amazement. He looked up at Margaret. "Mom?"

"I'm not sure," she said honestly. "Unless he uses magic, I cannot tell you how he did it. Wasn't it a good trick?" She gave her son a smug smile.

Thomas's face flushed red at that. He bit his lip in annoyance and ran his hand over the rock necklace. "How did you do that?" he asked shyly.

"You're asking a magician to reveal one of his secrets," said Malcolm as he showed Thomas his empty hands. "If I told every child my secrets whenever they asked me to, I'd have no secrets left."

Thomas frowned. "What if… we made a deal?" He glanced over at Margaret.

"This is between you and Malcolm," she told him.

Thomas went over and grabbed Malcolm's arm, dragging him over to the kitchen. Understanding that it was her cue to give them some privacy, Margaret ruffled through her things to find a thick shawl. She knew that Malcolm would offer her his jacket in less than a heartbeat if she got cold, and as lovely as it was having his scent surround her, she knew not to ask for too much from Malcolm. His compassion and kindness were endless, so much so that he put his own well being at risk without even realising it. It was unlike anything Margaret had seen in her life.

Perhaps that's why she fell in love with him. Perhaps that's why she didn't wish to put too much on his shoulders.

But that created another problem for her. She wanted Malcolm in her life, that was true, and possibly a little selfish of her. However, she had to think about Thomas. He was her strength. Her pride and joy. There was a reason she hadn't told Thomas what he truly is, he was simply too young for it, but if Malcolm was to be a part of their lives, Margaret would have to tell him about Thomas. Sooner or later.

The soulgaze she shared with Malcolm told her everything. And yet she still held this fear deep inside of her, this fear that something would go wrong.

Margaret thought of the little voice that had snuck into her mind all those months ago. When she and Thomas were still under Raith's thumb and trapped in that god awful mansion. Whenever she thought of that voice she knew that the path she had chosen was right, but that didn't make traveling down it any less easier.

Margaret looked over at the boys and saw that them shaking hands. She picked a shawl the colour of dark chocolate and sat back down at the table, eager to hear what sort of deal they had cooked up.

Both of them walked up to her with bright smiles. "Thomas has just offered me a very good deal."

Thomas, to Margaret's amusement and horror, actually _smirked._

"Well, he drove a hard bargain," explained Malcolm. "You have to change the deal you have with him. Instead of telling Thomas _everything_ when he's 100, you have to tell him sooner."

"It's that good of a deal?"

Malcolm nodded, and even though he tried to hide it, Margaret could tell that he was excited.

"In exchange for what?" she asked.

Malcolm chuckled. "He'll let me kiss you."

That took Margaret by surprise. She stared at her son, who seemed to be very proud of what he'd just accomplished. It was true that she wanted Thomas's approval of her relationship with Malcolm, but this was just short of him saying: "Sure, he's ok. But if he sucks don't blame me." She didn't know if it was Thomas's short time living in the Raith mansion, or if he was just particularly keen at picking up on the situation, but somehow Thomas had figured out what both she and Malcolm wanted.

"Soooooo," Thomas bounced on the tips of his toes, "do we have a deal?"

Margaret stood up and leaned into Malcolm's ear. "Shake his hand," she whispered.

Malcolm's smile grew, and he and Thomas shook hands with equal amounts of excitement.

Margaret put a hand on Malcolm's face and turned him towards her, and he wasted no time. His lips were coarse, warm, and inviting. The sensation Margaret felt while kissing him was not unlike that of digging her toes into a sandy beach. She felt a rush of pure joy and passion run up her spine, and she kissed back greedily. How, she wondered, could this man could draw her in so completely with one simple kiss?

When they drew back from each other, Margaret turned to Thomas and bowed her head in respect. "Well played," she said.

Thomas smiled and crossed his arms. "So you'll tell me everything when I'm seven?"

"Hmmm," Margaret placed a finger on her chin and pondered on it for a moment. "No, still too young."

"Eight?" Thomas offered.

"Twenty-eight."

"Less!"

"Twenty-five."

"I don't want to be old when you tell me."

"I'm older than twenty-five. Does that make me old?"

"Older than the dinosaurs!" exclaimed Thomas. Margaret hit Malcolm's shoulder when he laughed at that.

"Then how about we find middle ground?" Malcolm proposed with a flourish of his hand.

"But why can't I know _now_?" Thomas had such a confused expression on his face she wondered if her head had suddenly turned blue. "I don't know what's going on."

Margaret knelt down in front of Thomas and looked at him with as much sincerity as she could muster, leaving her gaze just above his eyes. "Thomas, I promise you that I will tell you everything when you're old enough."

"How old?" he asked, and Margaret could hear the sadness in his voice.

She had thought about this for a long time. She couldn't bring herself to tell Thomas everything when he was just a child, and yet she knew she couldn't keep him in the dark for long.

"Fifteen," she decided. Thomas scowled at the proposal. "This is middle ground, Thomas. It's the best deal you'll get."

"Fine," Thomas said sourly as he stuck his hand out for Margaret to shake. She gripped his much smaller hand and shook it twice.

"Well done, boy," Malcolm said with a smile. "You've convinced her mother to change her mind. That's not an easy thing."

Thomas beamed at them as he took his hand back. "And she's gonna tell me _everything_ in six years and one month!" He folded his arms proudly over his chest.

"For you, it's an eternity" Margaret told him. And for her, too soon.

A knock at the door made Margaret rise to his feet.

"The babysitter's here," Malcolm announced, holding his arm out to Margaret. "Ready, my lady?"

She took his arm happily. "Of course." She looked over at Thomas. "Try not to cause too much trouble."

Thomas gave her a noncommittal grunt and flopped onto the bed.

Malcolm smiled down at Margaret, and she responded with a mischievous grin. "Let's go," she said softly, seconds before Malcolm bent his head and pressed his lips against hers.

They broke apart and grinned at each other again, laughing at the sounds of Thomas's exaggerated groans of annoyance.

As soon as the babysitter was inside and Margaret had given her strict instructions to not leave Thomas alone in the room on penalty of zero payment, she erected the temporary wards again. As soon as she was satisfied with the hum of power that protected the room, she looped her arm through Malcolm's.

With the light snowfall and the lampposts just beginning to turn on, Margaret thought that the scene almost looked like a fairytale. Not the modern fairytales with heroes and noble knights, but one similar to those of the Brothers Grimm, with creatures lurking in the corners, waiting to gobble up their prey. The air had harsh crispness to it, the shadows were a bit too long, and Margaret was a bit too wary of every sound and rush of motion.

"I'm still amazed every time you do that," said Malcolm, his eyes glistening.

Margaret gave him a smile. "So what did he tell you?" she asked him as they strode over to his car, a large brown station wagon where he kept all of his magician equipment.

"That you trust me," said Malcolm. "He doesn't. But I make you happy, so that's enough. He's a good kid."

Margaret felt her smile turn wistful. "He is."

"He also said," Malcolm reached into the pocket and pulled out a long object, "that if I ever hurt you, he'll stab my eye out with this."

A fork. An honest to goodness _fork_. Margaret stared at it in amazement for a second, then tilted her head back and laughed.


	3. Nov 7th, Present Day

**Hello everyone. Sorry for the short break (I had to focus on school for a little while), but here I am with a new chapter.**

 **Let me know what you guys think!**

 **I do not own The Dresden Files or any of its characters.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - November 7th, Present Day**

I spend the next few days in a whirring haze. It's so strong that not even Harry's sudden bursts of energy and destruction are enough to yank me free of it. No matter where I go or what I do, it's there. It transforms every thought I have into a never-ending rabbit hole. It twists and turns with questions of 'what if' and 'why', making it so that I'm breathless and dizzy each time I try to go forward, try to find a way out.

It even follows me to school, a place I thought was relatively free of attachments from my personal life. I've never gotten truly attached to any of the schools I've been to, and that makes it all the more irritating. Most of my bruises have faded, with the exception of the big one on my ribs and the ones around my wrist, but right now I would welcome that ache in exchange for this swirling fog.

"Hey, Thomas," says a friend, this guy who I probably won't keep in touch with when we eventually move again, as I crash down into my seat. "You ok? You've kinda been out of it the past few days."

"Truthfully," I say, "I want to go cage-wrestling with God because I feel like he hired a guy to punch my brain. Would you consider that 'out of it'?"

I could feel the haze filling the corners of my eyes again when Suzy Buchanan, a girl who's incessant need for french kissing makes guys forget how much of an insensitive idiot she is, taps my shoulder from behind and gives me one of her painted smiles.

"Hey," she says with unwarranted cheer.

I turn around and pretend to focus on the math problems the teacher's scribbling on the board.

"So," she continues regardless, "I was thinking about staying after school for a while."

"Ok," I say. I don't wanna get into this right now.

I hear the creak of her desk as she leans forward. "I want to work on some chemistry homework." She's so close I can feel her hot breath.

I move my hair to cover the back of my neck. "Really? I thought you needed help with remedial english. Specifically the part that deals with using subtlety."

She completely misses the insult. Or ignores it. "Please," she says in a song-song voice.

"We're both taking biology." I barely restrain myself from adding a 'you dimwitted air-head' at the end of that sentence.

"Then maybe you can help me with biology," she says.

I really don't want to get into this. "You've seen my grades in that class," I say.

"Then maybe I can help you," she said, putting a particular emphasis on the _I_ and the _you_.

I never thought I'd be so happy to have a teacher walk through the classroom door, interrupt my conversation with a pretty girl who is way too interested in hooking up with me, and ask to see me in the hall. That alone should tell you what kind of headspace I'm stuck in.

Turns out they got a call from Malcolm. He has to stick around at his magician gig for a couple more hours, so he needs me to go pick up Harry after my last period ends. I thank the teacher, sit back down, and charmingly tell Suzy to go study biology by herself.

The end of the school day can't come soon enough. I'm off to pick up Harry as soon as they let me out, not even annoyed that Malcolm's indirectly making me late for training with Ferrin, but that's when the haze goes from a few foggy lines to thick grey streaks.

Malcolm. The guy I've been living with for years. Harry's dad.

A mortal man.

That's what Mom called Malcolm all those years ago, but there's got to be more to it than that. She didn't say 'normal', she didn't say 'trustworthy', she didn't say 'generous to the point of giving his burger to a homeless man even though _he_ was the one who said he was hungry and stopped at the burger joint in the first place'. (True story). No. She said 'mortal'.

Don't' get me wrong, I know that I have a crazy life, and not just because my mother was a witch. Mom and I escaped from my father when I was just five. I can still remember her shaking me awake in the middle of the night, her telling me that we weren't safe in that house, her showing me-

No. I am not thinking about that right now.

We lived on the run after that, always moving from place to place until the day she died. She always said that if we didn't move my father would catch us. Ever since she died we no longer travel because someone's out to get Mom, but because of Malcolm's work. It's been my life for so long that I'm not even bothered by it.

So I know about magic, the society of wizards and witches, the supernatural realm called the Nevernever where otherworldly creatures live. But that still doesn't explain Mom's choice of words.

Mortal. I keep coming back to it. It's such a specific word that she wouldn't have used it if it wasn't significant.

Does that mean that my father isn't mortal? For a while I thought that he was a wizard, like Mom, but I know that wizards are mortal, just like she was.

I'm a block away from Harry's kindergarten when I see a bunch of kids fighting on the school's steps. I hear the words "pathetic" and "loser" being chanted, and I feel my stiff feet walk faster.

I start to get a better view of the scene. There's a middle-aged teacher who's frantically trying to control the kids. All but one of them look like they're in second, maybe third grade. The odd one out has been pushed to the ground, but he gets up in half a second and raises a well-formed fist. The kid manages to hit the right side of one of the third graders' faces, but not hard enough to knock him down. Still, it gives him a chance to grab the older kid's knees and tumble him down a couple of steps.

I get a brief glimpse of the younger boy. Of his messy, unkempt hair.

Shit.

The other kids take advantage of the fall and pile up on Harry. He tries to push them off, but he accidentally causes himself to go rolling down the remaining steps. There's a scream as he lands badly on one foot, and the kids rush down to continue their torment-

The scene freezes the moment I get there.

I don't remember running, but my fast breath tells me I did. Or maybe I'm just that angry.

Whatever insult or punch those kids were ready to throw out, none of that matters now. I look each of them in the eye, and that shock that made them stop slowly turns into something different.

I can't tell what my face looks like right now. All I can say is that it's scary enough to make seven third graders believe with all their heart that even if they all manage to gang up on me, they wouldn't stand a chance.

"Look, the little rabbit needs someone to save him," says one of them, but the tremble in his voice dashes the insult to bits. No one else even tries to say anything. They just run back up the stairs, deciding that whatever punishment the teacher will give them is better than standing near me. Well, all of them except one.

Harry watches the older kids back up with surprise, and with a bit of effort manages to pull himself up into a sitting position. From the angle I'm at I can clearly see his injured ankle and the scrapes on his face that he got from the tumble. He looks up at me and smiles so wide you'd think he was looking at Iron Man.

I kneel down next to him. "You're a sight for sore eyes." I say lightly.

Harry punches me in the shoulder.

I lean over to whisper in his ear. "Need me to teach them a lesson?" I ask, to which Harry nods immediately.

The kids are being rounded up by the teacher who looks petrified, furious, and relieved all at once. I give her a hard look since she's the one who's supposed to make sure that things like this don't happen in the first place, and I think I actually spook her for a moment.

It doesn't take long for her to compose herself. She turns back toward the third graders and orders them inside with a stern voice.

Harry grins and grips my shoulder, using it to haul himself up onto his good foot. "Guess what," he yells. "I'm better than all of you!"

One of the kids tenses up and narrows his eyes. "Why's that?" he asks.

I stand up slowly. Harry grips the back of my old coat to keep himself steady, and his voice rings out clearly. "Because I have a big brother who can kick your butts!"

There's a shout from inside the building and the teacher turns her head for a moment, giving me just enough time to pop my knuckles in the way Ferrin always does when he wants to psych me out.

I can't help but smile when the kids scream their way inside. I make my smile look innocent enough for the teacher when she looks back at me, and apparently its good enough that she chases after the kids without another word.

"Scaredy cats," Harry yells with a gleam in his eye. He does a victory jump that quickly turns painful, and his mouth grimaces with pain as he rubs his right ankle.

"Careful," I say as calmly as I can, kneeling down in front of him. "Let's take a look at this."

Harry leans against me as I turn his ankle in my hands. "Hurts," he mutters.

"Just a sprain," I tell him. "Not too bad. You're gonna have to be careful for a little while, but it'll be ok."

Harry nods, but the smile is gone. He looks back up at the school and bites his lip. Now I realise he's trying not to cry.

I spot his school bag at the bottom of the steps, most likely it was thrown by the other kids. I sling it over my shoulder and get my own backpack to hang off the other. I tug on Harry's arm to get him to look at me, and I see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. "Let's get out of here."

I pull him onto my back, doing my best to not put pressure on my wrist, and start walking. Normally we'd take the bus back to the motel, but I know that the last thing Harry needs is people staring at him. I decide to take the long route back, the one where I know few people will pass us by.

We're silent for a while. Snowflakes start to fall from the sky and brush against the top of my head as I walk. Harry and I usually look forward to the year's first snowfalls. It's snows just enough, not too little that Harry can't fool around in it, and not too much that we're suffocated by coats because some asshole decided to make heating expensive.

I don't have to look at Harry to know that he's still not ok. Whenever I carry him on my back he's usually kicking his feet or pointing at random things, and even when he's sleeping he always wriggles and shifts his body. I've done this loads of times, but this is the first time he's ever been still, not even opening his mouth to catch the snowflakes.

Just as I think that Harry grips my neck so tight it's hard for me to breath. I'm about to tell him not to choke me when his next words stop me cold.

"They were saying that Mom hates me."

I turn my head and meet Harry's eyes. His are red from crying, full of a sadness that should never have been there in the first place.

"Mom doesn't hate you, Harry," I say to him. "She never did."

Harry, being Harry, isn't satisfied with my answer. "Then why isn't she here?"

"She died," I say. "You know that."

Harry shuts his eyes and buries his face into the fabric of my coat. "But _why_ did she die? Why can't I have a mom?" His words are muffled, but I still understand him perfectly.

There's a pang in my gut as memories of her come flooding back. Memories of her laughing at some joke, of her scolding me, of her falling in love with Malcolm, and of her rubbing her stomach while she was pregnant. I remember watching her do magic, sometimes creating little specks of light to perform whatever story she was telling me. Harry would've loved to see that. He would've loved a lot of things about her.

"A big brother's not good enough for you?" I ask, my voice feeling scratchy.

I know the answer before I ask the question. There's no one who can replace Mom, no matter how hard they try.

I clear my throat. "She'd be here if she could," I say with an assuredness I didn't expect. Harry looks up. "It's true that she isn't here now, but she fought to stay with us. Don't ever forget that."

Harry blinks, making snowflakes fall from his eyelashes. I readjust my grip on him, straighten my back, and go back to walking.

"I fought, too," Harry whispers after a while.

"I saw," I tell him. "You did the best you could."

"You did better."

"Because I'm the older brother who can kick their butts, remember?" I frown when Harry doesn't answer. After a moment, I continue. "We all have limits. You, me, everyone. Sometimes we can take people down, sometimes we can't. What's important is that you do the best you can."

"I did my best," he says, and right there I recognise something of Mom's in him. Her perseverance. Her will.

"I know." Looking back on the fight, I feel a bit of pride rise up in my chest. Harry didn't stand by and wait for the incompetent teacher to get her act together, he did something. "That's why I went to help you."

"Huh?"

"You stood up for yourself. That was really brave of you, Harry. All you needed was a little help to finish things."

Harry's good leg starts bouncing up and down. "I'll get stronger so I can fight like Mom. So that I can beat you!"

I laugh as I think of all the times Harry's tried to beat me in a fight. "Beat _me_?"

"Yeah!" he says excitedly, probably already thinking of the far-off day he might actually have a chance at beating me. "And so that those kids don't pick on me!"

"Those kids?" I scoff. "They're not even worth it. They're idiots."

"The biggestest idiots in the world!" announces Harry. "No! The second biggestest idiots in the world!"

I frown. "Why?"

Harry jabs a finger into the side of my head. "Because _you're_ the biggestest idiot!"

"No," I say, highly offended. "That's _you_."

"No! You!"

"'Biggestest' isn't even a word, butthead!"

"Thomas is the biggestest idiot in the world!" Harry announces to the street in his best impersonation of Malcolm's magician voice. "Did you hear that world? Thomas- Ah!"

I takes a little manoeuvring, but I manage to haul Harry's legs up over my shoulders. I'm careful with my grips on his ankles, even more so because of my busted wrist, but I let the rest of his body bounce against my back with a loud thud.

"Thomas!" I can feel his little fits pound against my legs. "Pull me up!"

"Do you like being upside down?" I ask him.

Harry's laughter fills the empty street. "No!" he screams.

"Am I still the biggestest idiot in the world?"

"No," says Harry. I look over my shoulder and see him grinning up at me. "You're the _biggest_ idiot in the world!"

I used to hope that Harry would grow out of his stubborn stage. That he'd learn when to keep his mouth shut.

Needless to say, I've given up all hope by now.

I swing him around as we walk back to the motel, and Harry laughs at every step. He tells me to try the snowflakes, so I do.

I don't realise until we get there that the haze is gone. That it'd been gone for quite a while.

* * *

"You're late."

I wince at Ferrin's voice. I had to stay with Harry until Malcolm got back to the motel, but there's no way I'd tell Ferrin that. There's a reason I don't trust him, even though I've known him since I was ten. Then again, maybe I don't trust him precisely because I've known him for that long.

The snow has stopped falling a few minutes before I got here, to an abandoned parking lot next to the town's rundown movie theatre. Ferrin's newest car is parked next to the ruined building, and the contrast makes my eyes hurt. I don't see him at first, but that's the point. He likes to do this. He thinks that's what messes with my head.

"Family emergency," I say to the grey-eyed shadow leaning in the movie theatre's empty doorway.

Ferrin lets out a rich laugh, but doesn't explain why he thinks it's funny. I'm tempted to sock him in the eye for that.

"Hello, Thomas. Had a nice week?"

"Yeah," I answer. "I sold a few illegal guns, oversaw a shady business deal, killed a couple of thugs who were out to get me. Oh wait, I think that was you."

"Careful," he says in a low voice. "Don't want to get me angry, now do we?"

Ferrin steps out of the shadows and into the bright winter light. He's a tall guy, but not too tall that people would would consider him to be freakishly big. On the contrary, he's the kind of guy girls give their phone number to without even needing a name. You just take one look at his face and see why. It's the kind of face you only see on magazines and in movies, one with clear skin and a smile with perfect teeth. His hair's cropped short, almost like a buzzcut, but he's got the ninety degree jaw to pull it off. He's wearing a dull white jacket that hugs the muscles on his arm, and the two swords at his sides give off the impression he's an movie star ready for an invisible director to yell "action!".

"Weapons training today." Ferrin holds up one of the two swords, a long one that's curved a sickle. "What is this?"

I know it's a test. About a month ago he'd shown me a collection of swords, guns, and even a couple of semiautomatics. I spent nearly six hours learning everything there was to know about them from a technical standpoint, and after that my brain was so fried I'm impressed I was still able to drag myself to school the next day.

"Falcata," I said confidently.

"Good." Ferrin tosses the weapon to me with careless grace, and I surprise myself by decently catching it. "Two rules today. One, whatever you do, don't drop your blade."

I run my eyes over the blade. "Two?"

Ferrin's blade cuts into my vision a second too late. I don't have time to block, so I'm forced to roll backward to dodge his sword's rapid swing.

"Two," says Ferrin, his grey eyes thrumming with a hunter's excitement, "is don't get sliced."

Ferrin doesn't hold back, even though he can see the large bruise on my wrist and can hear how I grit my teeth when I put too much pressure on it.

"One day you won't have to worry about things like that," he says after a particularly rough round.

I put the sword in my left hand to shake my bad wrist. "What do you mean by that?" I ask with panting breaths. He chooses to attack again instead of answering, and he's so fast I barely have enough time to raise my sword again.

"Well, well," says said with a smirk, glancing between me and my left hand, "looks like you'll be an interesting fighter after all."

That gets me pissed, so I keep using my off hand just to get that stupid smirk off of his face. Even though this is my first time using my other hand for something like this, I'm doing alright, but I'm still no match for Ferrin. He moves faster than anyone I've ever met, and his blows are so strong I'm half certain he could stop cars with his bare hands if he really tried.

We drill for three hours. By the time we're done the sun has gone down and I'm exhausted. I'm shaking so much I can barely get the water bottle to my mouth. I take in a big gulp and savour the feeling of water running down my throat.

The bottle is yanked out of my hand faster than I can blink. Some of its water spills onto my shirt, and I look up to see an amused smile on Ferrin's face.

"What's your problem, man?" I ask him.

He blinks. Maybe because there's more fire in my voice than normal. "I thought we had an agreement, Tommy. I train you, and you put up with it."

I ground my teeth. "Don't. Call me. Tommy. Only she gets to call me that."

"Let me remind you that she's the reason I'm here in the first place," he says, tipping the bottle over my head and pouring the rest of the water onto it. "I'm only here because she wants me here. I hope you haven't forgotten that, _runt_."

Ferrin chucks the bottle away when he runs out of water. "I have to go," he says. "See you next week."

I watch him reach his car. Watch him reach into his pocket and find nothing. Something flickers in his eyes, and his mouth twitches at one corner.

"Nice one, Tommy," says Ferrin. His tone tells me he's amused, but his face says differently. "You took my car keys. I didn't even notice. But now what? I'm a lot closer to the car than you, and you know you can't outrun me."

I know that. I know all of that and I still took the keys.

"Maybe you want prove to me that you're not a snotty little kid? That you've grown up and want to play with the big boys? Is that it?"

Not really. I didn't even think. He was pouring the water on my head, and I just did it.

"How about you give me the keys?" He sounds like he's playing with a pet. He takes a couple of steps forward, his demeanour slow and calculated, so I can get a good look at his face. "Do that, and this might end well for you."

Over the past few years I've learned how to read Ferrin's eyes, so when I see that they're now harsh and metallic, I know that I've crossed a line.

I pull out the keys from my pocket, and I hope that Ferrin can't see how much my hand's shaking. I'm about to throw him the keys and he rushes forward. He's gets so close I can feel how my panicked breaths bounce off his face and back onto mine. He takes the keys, but doesn't move away, instead choosing to stare me down.

Ferrin can't kill me. She said he can't. But she also said he can hurt me if it's for my training. For him, everything he does is for my training.

I hate that I can never predict how hurt I'll be at the end of each day with him. I hate that I can never predict if today will be the day I wind up in a hospital because Ferrin decides it would be fun to cut off my ear or break my spine.

I duck my head, raise my hands, and wait for what feels like an eternity. We've done this so many times it's like we're doing a well-practiced dance, and I count the beats as I wait for him to choose the next step.

Either I've done the right moves or Ferrin isn't in the mood to stick around, but either way, he snorts and strides back toward his car.

I breathe a sigh of pure relief. Later I'm going to have to pay for getting him angry, I know that, but what's important is that I've stopped him before his eyes get too bright. That's what counts.

I wonder for the thousandth time why I need to train, why I have to train with Ferrin, and why no one will tell me why.

"You better be on time next week," warns Ferrin. "And I wasn't lying when I said I have to leave. I have a very important appointment waiting for me."

"Where are you going?" I ask him as he opens the driver's door.

Ferrin stops and licks his lips, smiling with a sudden, ferocious hunger. "I'm going to go grab a bite to eat."


	4. November 1st, Six Years Ago

**Hello again. Thank you for being patient with me. This chapter was… a bit difficult for me to write. Either way, I hope you enjoy it.**

 **I do not own The Dresden Files or any of its characters.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4 - November 1st, Six Years Ago**

Yanking his car to a stop, Malcolm burst out of the station wagon. Everything around him except for the large hospital and the ground underneath his feet became a blur as he ran, almost as if the pounding rain melted everything else away.

Malcolm burst through the main doors soaking wet. There was a large white reception desk where calm, uniformed medical staff typed and files away papers. On it were yellow flowers in a small vase. A few had somehow managed to survive in a room filled with the scent of desperation and antiseptic, but others hung long and limply over the vase's side.

A nurse raised her head as Malcolm scrambled over to the desk. Never in his life had Malcolm thought he'd skip being polite to a woman, but instead of saying "Hello, I'm sorry to interrupt", the words that pressed themselves out of his mouth were: "I got a call about my wife."

The nurse's mouth parted slightly and her eyebrows drifted down, morphing her carefully polite smile into something more somber. "Mr Dresden?"

Malcolm nodded immediately.

"You might want to sit down."

He didn't move a muscle.

The nurse breathed a small sigh and spoke slowly. "There were complications with the birth. The doctors tried their best, but there was only so much they could do. I'm very sorry to say this, Mr Dresden."

Malcolm's breath caught in his throat.

"Your wife is gone."

The quiet hope left in his heart vanished. Malcolm's tears came pouring down his cheeks and made the whole world became a blur of colours, each one fading dully into the next.

Why couldn't they have stopped her death? Malcolm's heart screamed in pain as he thought about his beautiful Maggie. His beautiful, vibrant wife. Ever since he met her he could not picture Maggie as anything but passionate and wilful, as anything but alive. Her smile made the room dance. Her voice made Malcolm's heart sing.

No, his wife can't be dead. It had to be impossible for her to become a limp corpse. Her soul was too fierce. And yet, Malcolm did not believe that was a lie. Maggie had enemies, and there was never a day when she didn't look over her shoulder. She always said her time would come.

Malcolm didn't expect it to be so soon.

Through the heavy breaths that tightened his chest, Malcolm numbly opened his mouth, like a puppeteer pulling strings. "What about…?"

The baby wasn't due for another three weeks. Malcolm had heard about problems that could come up if a child was born early, and if Maggie had died while giving birth then what if…

"The children are alright."

Malcolm's head snapped up. More tears fell down his face, and he wiped them away with the worn cuff of his jacket.

The nurse gave him a sad, wondrous smile. "Your wife gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Mr Dresden. Healthy and alive." Her tone became more professional. "The child who came here with your wife, are you his guardian?"

"Where are they?" Malcolm's voice was hoarse, but he felt his eyes become alert. There were three long hallways that converged at the centre desk, each of them too long for Malcolm to see the end of. The one on the left had the sounds of ambulances and paramedics echoing and bouncing around, but there was little to no sound coming from the other two.

"The other child," pressed the nurse, "are you his guardian?"

"Please," Malcolm's voice cracked as he looked the nurse in the eye, "Just take me to them." If Maggie was dead, he needed to see them.

"Hopefully they'll be more receptive to you than our staff." Malcolm's mind barely processed the words as the nurse led him down the hallway on the right. His surroundings still felt blurred, but the world right in front of him was sharp and clear.

A shiny new elevator with an even brighter 'Caution - Out of Order' neon sign greeted them at the end of the hallway. The nurse walked up the stairwell next to it, and Malcolm feared he would trample the backs of her heels.

Bright blue and yellow wallpapers dulled by time led the way to the nursery. Malcolm's eyes peered into every doorway as they walked through, uselessly hoping that Maggie would pop out of one of them with a grin on her face. It could all be a trick. A trick to get someone off her tail so that she could rest easy after giving birth.

The revived pinprick of hope was snuffed out as Malcolm's gaze landed on Thomas.

Malcolm remembered a time less than a year ago when a group of rogue fairies had attacked them outside a theatre. He'd been packing his magician gear in the back of the station wagon when one of them had sunk it's claws into Thomas's leg. It had taken one of Maggie's more powerful spells and a heavy steel pipe from the theatre to distract the fairies long enough to pull them off of Thomas, and they still barely managed to skid out of there. The fairies followed them for a long while after that. Maggie used some momentous magic that was comparable to a fireworks display, but it still took the three of them a week to finally get them off their tail.

Thomas, who was only seven, almost didn't even look like a child by the end of it all. They'd barely gotten any sleep, they kept getting attacked every waking hour, and Maggie kept pushing herself and her limits over and over again to the point where she nearly collapsed a few times. All of that had left Thomas scared and exhausted.

And Malcolm was looking at a demon's version of déjà vu.

There he was, sitting on a hard plastic chair next to a brightly coloured door. A watchful nurse sat next to him, trying to place a hand on his back, but Thomas shook her off. His trembling legs were firmly pressed against his even unsteadier chest, wrinkling his pirate costume. His face was squashed against his knees, but because of his long, tousled hair being held back by a red bandana, Malcolm could see a fragment of Thomas's expression. His eyes were shut tight and he was biting his lips. He swallowed a sob that tried to escape, and all that seemed to do was make him shake harder.

Malcolm rushed down the rest of the hallway. "Thomas!"

Thomas's head shot up like a crack of lightning and he nearly fell off of his chair. At the sight of Malcolm his eyes filled with disappointment, reminding Malcolm of an audience after a trick fails or isn't grand enough.

"You weren't here!" Thomas yelled. Malcolm kneeled in front of Thomas and wrapped his arms around the trembling boy. "Mom died and you weren't here!"

"I'm sorry," said Malcolm, his heart in every word. "I'm so sorry."

Thomas thrashed his limbs, nearly making Malcolm lose his hold on him. "Bring her back!" he pleaded. "Bring her back!"

Malcolm didn't try to stop Thomas from thrashing about. Who knew how long he'd been there. How long he'd been holding back. "Thomas, shhhh. Shhhh." Malcolm rubbed Thomas's back softly, forcing himself to stay calm and steady.

Thomas's pounding legs lost some of their fight. He took a shaky breath and began pushing Malcolm's chest, but it wasn't long before his breaths became shallower, more filled with agonising sadness. One sob yanked itself free.

"She's gone," Thomas croaked.

"I know," said Malcolm, pushing back the bile in his throat. "I know."

"They won't let me see him!"

Malcolm looked up at the nurse from the front desk. "We can't allow minors into the nursery without a guardian," she explained. "Especially after he's tried to sneak inside multiple times."

"I'm his step-father," said Malcolm. "Can you take us inside?"

"I need proof that you're his guardian," the nurse insisted. "Otherwise I'll have to hand Thomas over to Child Services"

Thomas pounded the chair with his feet. "I want to see him!" he screamed.

For a moment, Malcolm went still. Thomas was never one to express his demands with a tantrum. Pestering, guilt manipulation, even covert blackmailing! - that was more… Well, more _Thomas_. This was the first time Malcolm had ever heard Thomas demand something with such fierce anger. And it scared him.

The nurse next to Thomas held her arms out warily. What surprised Malcolm was that she didn't seem to want to touch the child, and that the arms were there more as a precaution. In case Thomas did anything.

A tightrope had been raised, and Malcolm could feel Thomas teetering off the edge.

Malcolm carefully let go of Thomas and reached deep into his hunting jacket. The custody papers were crinkled from spending so many months stuffed inside the jacket, but the nurse seemed to approve of them and briskly walked away to make an official copy.

Malcolm shrugged off the jacket and draped it over Thomas, who had nothing on except his thin pirate costume.

Thomas didn't scream again, but he stared at the doctors and nurses with such pure sorrow that his eyes burned, and despite Malcolm's jacket, his entire body was shaking.

"Thomas," Malcolm began to say. Thomas didn't turn to look at him, but he brought one closed hand to his chest and covered it with the other.

The nurse sitting in the other chair sighed at Malcolm. Her face told him that it was useless to ask.

Malcolm placed his own hand on top of Thomas's. "It's ok," he said, though he wasn't sure if Thomas heard him or not.

A new nurse opened the brightly coloured door next to them. "This way, please," she said in a low tone of voice. "We have to be very quiet."

Thomas nearly jumped out of his chair at the words, accidentally shrugging off the jacket and spooking the nurse. She gave Malcolm a stern glance which made him put up a hand. Thomas was a smart kid, and if he'd been patient enough to wait for Malcolm to arrive, that meant he knew that to see his brother he'd have to play by the rules.

Through the nursery's open door came the low sounds of babies yawning and rustling about. In there was his son. The child he'd been aching to meet ever since Maggie had told him she was pregnant. "He's going to change everything," she'd whispered, as if it were the greatest secret and the greatest surprise.

He draped his jacket around Thomas's shoulders once more, and together they walked inside.

* * *

"Which one is he?" Thomas asked in a small voice.

"They're going to bring him to us," said Malcolm, gently pressing Thomas down onto the nursery's stiff couch. The boy shuffled onto it's edge, his whole body trembling with anticipation as he followed the nurse's movements like a hawk.

The nursery was small and clean, with a dozen cribs evenly spread throughout the room. The nurse reached into one of the cribs on the far side of the room and pulled out a thick, white blanket. There was a small cry, and the nurse rocked the blanket gently as she walked toward Thomas and Malcolm.

Malcolm had never been able to imagine this moment. Sure, he tried, but he no idea what to expect. While Maggie was pregnant he wondered what did the baby looked like, what would it feel like to hold him.

"Here's your dad," the nurse whispered happily, carefully lowering the white cocoon into Malcolm's arms.

A small head poked out from the middle of the blanket.

The baby was small, smaller than Malcolm suspected. His eyes were closed and there were whispers of dark hair on the crown of his head. He fussed around in his blanket, nearly jabbing an elbow into Malcolm's chest.

"Shhh," Malcolm said in a low voice. "I'm here. I'm here now. Shhh."

The baby in his arms was his and Maggie's son.

He was perfect.

The nurse looked Thomas over and bit her lip. "There were complications during the birth," she explained to him. Her voice was cautious and her words tiptoed around Thomas as if he were glass. Or a bomb. "It wasn't your brother's fault."

"I know," said Thomas with fiery conviction. "She told me. She told me something was hurting her, but that she wouldn't let it hurt him." There was loss in his voice, but also unmistakable pride.

Malcolm smiled. Of course Maggie would say that. She always knew the right thing to say.

God, how was he going to do this? He had two child to care for, and he had to do it all on his own. Just the thought of it made cold fear flood into him. The magical, devious, incredible woman he had wanted to spend the rest of his life with was gone. He had been counting on her to remain by his side, to help with everything that was to come. Maybe he had been hoping for too much.

She was the one who kept away the dark things that went bump in the night, and already Malcolm could feel pressing danger turning around the corner.

This wasn't right. Malcolm just wasn't equipped for this. All he had to rely on were his experiences with Maggie and Thomas. The best he'd done so far is rely on what he thought was the right thing to do, but that didn't mean it was the right thing. Maggie would've been the better parent. She had wits, connections, and even magic that always seemed to pull her out of any problem she found herself in. If he screwed up, there would be nothing to help him.

"Did she give him a name?" Malcolm asked the nurse.

She shook her head. "There wasn't time."

Malcolm stroked the baby's forehead gently. "I've had an idea for a name," he said to Thomas. "We don't have to use it if you don't like it"

Thomas raised his head. His eyes were glassy.

"Harry. Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden."

Thomas considered it for a moment and licked his lips. "Like the magicians," he said.

"You don't like it?"

"Mom would like it," Thomas murmured, and that seemed good enough for him.

Malcolm smiled, feeling pain and joy and sadness all at once. "Harry it is, then."

Thomas pulled his arms away from his chest, moving far too slowly and gingerly for his age. His balled up fist pried itself open, revealing a silver pentacle necklace inside. Malcolm could see Thomas's own underneath his pirate shirt, which meant-

It was Maggie's necklace.

Heartache bloomed in Malcolm's chest. He had no idea where had Thomas had gotten the necklace, but the boy didn't pause to explain as he put the silver chain around little Harry's neck. It was nearly as long as Harry himself.

Thomas made a soft choking sound. "It's too big," he said in a small voice. He hung his head, looking just as disappointed as when he'd seen Malcolm and not Maggie.

Malcolm opened his mouth but no words came out. What was he supposed to say to Thomas? Even he wished Maggie were here instead of him. Malcolm could even picture her waltzing in and scolding Thomas for taking her necklace and-

No. It wasn't Maggie's anymore.

It was Harry's.

No matter how Malcolm looked at it, his wife was gone.

Two children remained.

Harry and Thomas were his responsibility now. His and only his. Even if Malcolm truly was as unprepared as he felt himself to be, that didn't change anything. He wasn't Maggie, but Maggie wasn't perfect either. If she had been, they wouldn't been running from town to town in the first place. For all her magic and knowledge, Maggie was still human, and yet she never let it stop her from defending her family with everything she had.

That was something Malcolm could do. Though he knew that he would never be perfect and that he could never be the parent Maggie was, he would do everything in his power to care for the boys. To raise them in a way that would make Maggie proud and keep them safe.

A thought flew across Malcolm's mind. There was no logic or reason behind it other than it feeling like the right thing to do, but from here on out, that was all he had.

"Hold out your arms," he told Thomas. The boy's head snapped up in surprise. He looked over at the nurse and glared at her, his messy and tangled hair making him look like a feral cat about to pounce.

"Not her," said Malcolm. "You."

Thomas's snarl disappeared. He stared at Malcolm, confused and stunned at the same time. "I… What…"

Malcolm smiled. "Hold them out," he repeated.

For what could have been the first time in his life, Thomas did as he was told. Malcolm gently placed Harry in Thomas's arms, which quickly began to wobble. The nurse's eyes filled with panic, and Malcolm held a hand out to her. Thomas saw what was happening and quickly shifted his grip, pulling his arms closer to his chest and supporting the baby's head with the crook of his elbow.

Something changed then, though Malcolm couldn't pinpoint what. Maybe it was something in the way Thomas relaxed into the couch. Or the way his face and eyes softened. Whatever it was, it grounded and steadied Thomas. Balanced him on the tightrope.

"H-Hi," Thomas whispered, "I'm your big brother."

The nurse's stepped back in surprise.

"We can give him his necklace after he grows up a bit," suggested Malcolm. "It won't be too big then."

A couple of tears rolled down Thomas's face. He opened his mouth, and a sob pushed it's way out. Thomas swallowed it down and whispered, "Ok. Ok."

His breathing hitched, and the lone tears became rivers.

Each of his sobs held the weight of the world.

Seeing nothing else he could do, Malcolm brought both of the boys close to his chest. Harry, either woken up by Thomas's cries or Malcolm's sudden hold on him, wailed alongside his brother. Malcolm could see his eyes were brown, just like his and Maggie's.

"Harry," Thomas forced through his cries, looking at Harry with eyes too old to be a child's. "Mom says she loves you."

Malcolm held them tighter.


End file.
